#kyrie 「 𝘙𝘌𝘗𝘓𝘠 」

[a-vctlan]

— angsty conversation prompts | @sleeplesswork :

what difference does it make ? — vergil to kyrie ( hehe, from your wish list, maybe kyrie can play therapist for this man who desperately needs it . . . )

Her hands clasp together, a self-soothing attempt as she tries and tries to reach out to the tattered bands of Vergil's humanity, held together in knots, distant and aloof, as if afraid he'd crumble if someone where to pull them apart.

Maybe he should, a part of her whispers, made to rebuild himself from the ashes of what he used to be… but she lets these thoughts lie, shaking her head as she tries again.

"Does it have to make a difference to matter?" Although her physique is frail, there is no waver in her voice as she speaks, her stubbornness not allowing her to let this lie unresolved. "Life is not about the peaks and valleys of our existence, and to reduce ourselves to only these things will leave you unfulfilled, craving more no matter how much you achieve."

She wrings her hands, briefly moving up to brush against the necklace that Nero gifted her, a small moment made into a precious memory for the mundane nature of it.

"I ask because there must be something you enjoy about the world, reasons that made you give us another chance." Defeatist words, understanding of the intricacies of his position - people like her are little more than prey animals to beings such as him, and yet like a deer she stands before him, doe eyes and a fluttering heartbeat. "It is true that the world is often cruel and senseless, taking away things precious to you… but I promise there is beauty in it too, and I would gladly help you find it, if you let me."

[sentmail]

𝘚𝘐𝘔𝘖𝘕 "𝘎𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘛" 𝘙𝘐𝘓𝘌𝘠 — @pseudodead

He isn't one to misplace things.

That's it, end of the sentence. Kunsel is borderline obsessive with how he organizes and stores his things, as good equipment can often end up otherwise permanently "borrowed" in a program with this many budget cuts.

That, however, doesn't change the fact that his case files and reports were missing, which he'd left on the table for a grand total of 10 minutes while someone paged him for an emergency. They were due in two hours. The one time he isn't keeping track of something...

He's cool. He's calm. Still, there's a bit of a judging edge how he visibly scans what he can see of the area before resting his eyes on the only other soul present. Again, totally unbothered, check how he's casually leaning against a wall, arm giving a lazy wave as he talks to get full attention.

"Oh, hey - seen anyone else pass by here?"

[inverdade]

blood, blood prompts | @celestrahl :

sender leans on receiver for support, from v to kyrie!

She hurries to his side the moment he stumbles in his steps, steadying the frail man with one hand on his arm and another to his chest, the furrow of her brow a sign that he was now ensnared in her attention and care, her worry not something easy to shake off.

"You shouldn't push yourself so hard…" She speaks, but it is not a voice of criticism - it is one of understanding, her own body at times weaker than she could stomach, suffering from a fraying connection between body and spirit ever since she was subjected to the False Savior's core.

"Come, rest with me a while…" She tries to bargain, leading him to a nearby kitchen table. "Fighting against your body will only weaken you further."

[a-vctlan]

— basorexia / the desire to kiss prompts | @sleeplesswork :

08 .   a  kiss  in  secret  /  a  forbidden  kiss . i can imagine the order is against all pre-marital romance so shhh ~ secret kiss ;)) - from nero !

Her hands tenderly cup his cheeks in an attempt to steel her own nerves, a flush of color going up her face until it reaches the tips of her ears, her fair complexion not giving her a chance to hide just how affected she was by such affection.

… But it was hard to contain herself, knowing that the moment they got caught they'd both be in trouble.

Kyrie is supposed to be above these banal wishes, by design forbidden to entertain the notion of a suitor; as the crown jewel of the Order's ceremonies, a member of the prestigious Cardinale family, she was something to be coveted for her youth and beauty, eventually being arranged to wed to another member of Fortuna's elite.

Her life would always be this, observed from a distance, something kept and protected, living her life for the Order no matter what was asked of her.

… And yet, it is in these stolen moments that she finally feels alive, and she can't help but praise Sparda for allowing her even just this, rehearsing passages in her mind in a private prayer as she brings their faces together.

Had the Savior not rebelled, too? Had He not fought his nature for the Love of humans?

Her lips are soft, the faintest taste of vanilla present as she kisses him, a tender yet exploratory experience as she thinks back on all the romance books she'd slowly collected — is this how real people kiss? She can't help feeling a little overwhelmed, her body leaning into his a little harder, wanting to take all she could from this brief little moment before she had to leave, always busy, always either practicing or being taught by her tutors... and yet it was the distance carved between them that made her so stubborn.

She wanted him, not some suitor to be decided for her, she did - because it is only under his gaze that she feels seen for who she is: a girl with what felt like the world on her shoulders, expected to give everything up in the name of their Savior... and as she pulls away, finally, she hides her face in his chest, a quiet girlish giggle escaping her.

... Would it be so bad to be in trouble, for once in her life?

[a-vctlan]

‘ PATCH. ‘ - [ nero ] starts to bandage [ kyrie. ] 🥺 — @demonpunch

A cut across her palm, a slight tremor to her form, it takes her a moment to even realize that he's there, kneeling in front of her and gently taking her hands into his own, pressing a towel against the cut, his cool eyes boring into hers in worry and care, and for a moment she's distracted by just that, the way how it was so much easier to look into his eyes now that he cut his hair.

It was nice, actually. Perhaps she was already getting used to it?

Trailing thoughts, however, do slowly bring her back to the present, and she's suddenly bashful, trying very hard to be compassionate with herself but unable to smother all the frustration she felt.

"A dizzy spell, that's all."

Being in the Savior's core… it did something, opened her mind to all of the energy around them, constantly waving and swarming. Sometimes it was but a slight tickle to her awareness, a feeling she found comforting as it often meant Nero was nearby. Other times it was the crash of a wave, sweeping her off her feet, a pressure that came and went, and she had no way of comprehending or pinning the source of.

Because she might now be aware of them, but she was still just human - she wasn't meant to be able to feel these presences.

But that was simply how things were now, and she would have to try to live with it… No. She would learn to live with it, because she had him at her side. And she knew Nero wouldn't give up on her - and so, neither was she allowed to give up on herself.

"Thank you Nero - it's not bad, is it? I've already made a mess by breaking the plate." Here she does sound a little upset, but it is mostly because she liked that piece of porcelain - it came in a set.

[a-vctlan]

𝘏𝘐𝘎𝘎𝘚 𝘔𝘖𝘕𝘈𝘎𝘏𝘈𝘕 — @pseudodead

She was left behind as if that would protect her.

In truth, she understood - she was no stranger to being sheltered from the aghast horrors awaiting behind the curtain, raised in blessed and cruel ignorance, but this was different. She was older, no longer as naive, capable of witnessing and accepting the full scope of the senseless cruelty and violence and death that awaited Nero and Nico at their destination - and how that was something only they would be able to deal with, protected only by her hope of their safe return.

Just as she understood that there had to be someone here, behind the lines, awaiting with open arms all those that sought shelter from the storm, a guiding light in the night, a soothing voice singing prayers no matter the outcome that awaited them all.

Alone, and yet the table is set for three nonetheless, a quiet show of love, a simple form of putting her worry into action and turning it into hope: they would be successful, and they would return.

The lights flicker out in the street, unseen to her.

[a-vctlan]

It felt like a dream, discordant and hazy, with echoes of familiar instruments urging her to think of nothing else but this moment, unearthing anxieties she'd thought buried: she had to perform, she had to be perfect, the swelling of the music was coming to a peak, her part would start soon -- and so she wrings her hands together, she takes a breath, and she sings.

𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘕 𝘛𝘖 𝘔𝘠 𝘝𝘖𝘐𝘊𝘌 𝘊𝘈𝘓𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘗𝘜𝘓𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘖𝘜𝘛 𝘖𝘍 𝘋𝘈𝘙𝘒𝘕𝘌𝘚𝘚 𝘏𝘌𝘈𝘙 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘋𝘌𝘝𝘐𝘓’𝘚 𝘊𝘙𝘠 𝘖𝘍 𝘚𝘐𝘕 𝘈𝘓𝘞𝘈𝘠𝘚 𝘛𝘜𝘙𝘕 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘉𝘈𝘊𝘒 𝘖𝘕 𝘏𝘐𝘔

She stands by the foot of her bed, framed only in the moonlight bleeding through the window, and yet she is absolutely sure she is once again on Fortuna's stage, surrounded by empty pews. Her voice echoes, the tone isn't right, and worry seeps into her bones - she had to try harder, she had practiced just for this.

𝘞𝘐𝘛𝘏 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘞𝘐𝘕𝘋 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘎𝘖 𝘚𝘛𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘐 𝘋𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘔 𝘖𝘍 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘚𝘗𝘐𝘙𝘐𝘛 𝘓𝘌𝘈𝘋𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘉𝘈𝘊𝘒 𝘏𝘖𝘔𝘌 𝘐 𝘞𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘎𝘐𝘝𝘌 𝘔𝘠 𝘎𝘐𝘍𝘛𝘚 𝘛𝘖 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘎𝘙𝘖𝘞 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘎𝘈𝘙𝘋𝘌𝘕, 𝘞𝘈𝘛𝘊𝘏 𝘐𝘛 𝘉𝘓𝘖𝘖𝘔

The air grew heavier with every verse, lungs taking breath but finding no ease in their efforts, and for a moment her vision swims - but she still sings. She cannot stop.

𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘓𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛 𝘐𝘕 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘌𝘠𝘌𝘚 𝘐𝘚 𝘈𝘕 𝘈𝘕𝘎𝘌𝘓 𝘜𝘗 𝘏𝘐𝘎𝘏 𝘍𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘛𝘖 𝘌𝘈𝘚𝘌 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘚𝘏𝘈𝘋𝘖𝘞 𝘚𝘐𝘋𝘌 𝘏𝘌𝘈𝘙𝘛𝘚 𝘞𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘎𝘙𝘖𝘞 𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘎𝘏 𝘏𝘈𝘝𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘛𝘖 𝘉𝘌𝘕𝘋 𝘓𝘌𝘈𝘝𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘉𝘌𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘋 𝘈𝘓𝘓 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎𝘚 𝘐𝘕 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘌𝘕𝘋

The echo overtakes her, swallows her, and she cannot tell if she is still singing - unable to discern from where the sound of her own voice comes from. The weakness comes for her now, a sickly feeling that chills her limbs as Kyrie finds herself slowly falling down to her knees, the carpet beneath her breaking the illusion of being on stage - but a hand reaches out to her, tired mind unable to question its origin until she finds it in her to look up, head swimming with wakefulness that crashes into her like ocean waves.

She was sleeping, alone at home. Yet she was standing by the bed. She'd been singing... and someone was in the room with her.

Mind and body recoil, but her hand is held with a gentle yet firm clawed grip, treating her like a frightened animal. A female form with monstrous features, a presence that resonated with the energy within her soul - a demon.

One that smiles sweetly at her as it sings to her. In her own voice.

𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘕 𝘛𝘖 𝘔𝘠 𝘝𝘖𝘐𝘊𝘌 𝘊𝘈𝘓𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘠𝘖𝘜

... When they return, she is not there.

The wards that were supposed to protect their home are broken, and brute-forced. There is no sign of frantic struggle, only of clear resistance and hesitancy - Kyrie did not want to leave.

There is no message, no note.

Only a scattering of pitch black feathers which whispered when touched by Nero, all calling out for him in Kyrie's voice, a cruel mockery. A siren had taken Kyrie, Nico would come to identify, one that couldn't have gone far, one that they could track down... given enough time.

@demonpunch

[a-vctlan]

‘ got diagnosed with cool guy syndrome yesterday. so now i take adderall. ’ @kyrie !

VINE SENTENCE STARTERS

"Well, I've always thought you to be very cool, but I am glad you have gotten confirmation for it." Hands clasped together by her chest in seeming surprise, the smile she gives is earnest, genuinely heartfelt. It should be impossible to be this kind and loving, but somehow she manages for everyone else’s sake.

"Oh, do you want help with reminders? I could set an alarm for you so you don't forget."

[a-vctlan]

ᴇᴍᴘʏʀᴄᴀʟ ꜱᴇɴᴛ ɪɴ:

❛ i had my suspicions, but until now i wasn’t sure. ❜ (v & kyrie ft. I forgot to send you memes from like a month ago)

ᴋʏʀɪᴇ ᴅɪ ꜰᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀ

A soft sigh of acceptance is given as a reply, Kyrie raising a hand to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, her free arm coming to rest across her stomach and hold the elbow of the other. An uncanny feeling settled inside her chest whenever V was around, reminded her of what was once home: a low hum of demonic power, warped and strained. She enjoyed his presence, someone a few steps below the rambunctious nature of everyone else she surrounded herself with, but it was hard not to feel like his eyes looked past her, knew something she didn't in moments like this.

     But that too wasn't an unfamiliar thing, now was it?           Credo often looked at her with a heaviness she couldn't place.      She wished he would just tell her.

"Do you think…" The question felt silly, even in her mind, but part of her refused to let go of hope. "If we find who took his demon arm, do you think Nero could heal, grow his arm back? He's a capable fighter, especially with Nico providing him weapons but…" The weapons don't take away the pain she knows he feels, don't erase the memory of him nearly bleeding out in their garage, don't soften the nights spent awake before he leaves to fight again. "... I'm sure it frustrates him to have the full extent of his powers locked inside of himself with no conduit."

[a-vctlan]

21 .   a  kiss  on  the  cheek ( GIB ME KYRIE !!! )

ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛꜱ.

      THE SOFT GESTURE IS RETURNED IN TURN, a giddy smily gracing an otherwise  serene experssion. It was nice to find time to hang out with others of her own temperament... do not get her wrong, she adores the Devil May Cry gang, but even they should be able to admit that they're at the very least... rambunctious? A little loud and brutish? She meant it in the most positive way possible, of course, but Kyrie couldn't keep up with their energy, the Savior Incident leaving her with a lasting exhaustion.

      "It's so nice to see you again, how have you been? I hope your travels went well, I'd hate to hear that you got troubled for the sake of this little get together."

[a-vctlan]

can you stay ? just for a little while ? @kyrie ✨— @demonpunch

He'd gotten into trouble with the Order again.

His behavior was disruptive, his attitude disrespectful, and his fashion and hobbies an affront to the conservative and traditional nature of Fortuna, who seemed set on entrapping itself in the past, of living life as close to nature and spirituality as possible.

Had he not his fighting prowess and direct connection to Creedo… Kyrie loathed imagining how he'd be treated.

And so she snuck away once the last pair of eyes left her, such a mundane thrill for someone like her, sought to find him in order to bring him a plate of treats from the formal gathering he'd been removed from.

And he'd been silent, to a point she'd assumed he'd rather be alone, but her indecisive loitering by the veranda door seemed to spur him to words, and gladly did she accept the quiet request to keep him company -- the quiet footfalls of her performance heels, dressed as an ornament befit such a serious occasion, were it not for her crown she'd rest her head on his shoulder as she steps closer, coming to stand side by side.

"Of course." Instead, she tries to meet his gaze, a small shy smile playing across her expression. "You're more important to me than a celebration, Nero."

They would come to fetch her eventually, her voice needed for the closing ceremony but… until then she was fine right where she was.

[a-vctlan]

ꜰᴇʟꜰʀᴜɪᴛ ꜱᴇɴᴛ ɪɴ:

97﹕ sender has hidden a injury from receiver, and receiver finds out. ( for kyrie 👉👈 )

@felfruit

ᴋʏʀɪᴇ ᴅɪ ꜰᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀ

The silence that followed after Vergil's every step seemed to bring with it a preemptive end to any possible conversation, a ghost trailing after the living, never quite making the first move to interact, all the while recoiling from any attempts made to approach him -- but he was trying, and by that Kyrie would stand. He lingered in the halls, he observed, and no doubt judged them and their homey lifestyle... but he stayed.

Nero trusted him, wanted to give him a chance to reacquaint himself with his own humanity, to atone and repent... and besides that, Nero had made it quite clear that Vergil was there on their terms, and any misstep would be harshly scrutinized, with Kyrie as the head of the house becoming the 'unbiased' judge to his behavior.

So far, she had naught to say, spare perhaps some pity she pushed back, well aware that men of his standing would see it as an affront to their character, an admission of weakness on their part. ( False angels dressed in white. Her brother's chin raised high. ) She simply wished that Vergil would see that their welcoming of his presence was genuine, no matter his past misdeeds against them, against Nero.

That weakness was not sin, but a right, vulnerability mandatory in order to be fully human.

And perhaps that's the line of thought that had her pause when she checked over their first aid supplies, taking note of the missing scraps of bandages and gauze she had put aside. In a home like theirs, between Nero and Nico constantly finding new ways to injure themselves in their work, these items had a tendency to disappear... but they were not home, now vacant through the sheer mundane nature of grocery shopping. It was just her in the kitchen, stew idly murmuring on low heat, and Vergil who'd been in the study when she last saw a glimpse of him.

... She might be passive, avoidant of conflict, but this was her home -- and she would not have a guest suffer needlessly in silence. She wipes her hands on her apron before making sure nothing would run off the stove, deciding in her mind that she'd at least check if he'd need anything. Perhaps it was nothing, her mind running wild with the slight awkwardness that it was trying to get to know a man who struggled with allowing himself to be perceived as a member of their admittedly rambunctious found-family. She wouldn't know unless she checked.

And if there is one thing to take into advantage was the lightness of her steps, her presence almost background noise to beings people so embed with power. Through each doorway she peers, finding no one, and for a moment she wonders if he didn't just leave until she notes the lights on in the garage, all the way across the house from where she'd been... she knocks, but hesitates not to open the door.

The worries eating at her mind are confirmed, and it's hard not to let her expression slip into that slight furrow of brows, betraying her attempts to seem neutral, worry clear in her expression.

But she'd seen blood, and she'd seen scars -- making a scene out of this would surely just push him away, especially when questions ought to be raised to his inability to merely heal these wounds on his own. Was he weakened? Had something gone wrong during their stay in hell? Need he time to acclimate himself to being on this side of hell's gate? She chews briefly on her lower lip, idly biting back these questions, before averting her gaze to the floor, wanting to give the man some of the privacy she'd revoked.

"... We have more bandages in the kitchen if you need them." A small offer to start with, testing the waters. "Dinner is almost ready, and Nero and Nico ought to be back soon as well..." And so he would have to finish licking his wounds elsewhere, if isolation was what he sought. "If you don't want to worry them, I will not tell them, all I ask is that you let us know if there is something wrong. We want to help, however we might, Vergil."

[a-vctlan]

There is hesitation, a sucked-in breath as she remained where she stood, almost unbelieving that she was being beckoned closer - but she pushes past it, the first step down the stairs feeling no different than taking a plunge in the frigid sea, remaining calm even as her body feels overwhelmed with a thought: had her worries been right?

Once she comes closer, the breath she held finds its way out of her chest in the form of a gasp, getting a proper look towards the wound he'd been attempting to nurse on his own. It did not look good, the stench of iron heavy on the palate, pain palpable in every exhale and stilted movement - she wanted to help, just as she felt she ought to.

If they wanted Vergil to trust them, they would have to prove to what extent he could - and maybe it would have to start here, wounded and ugly, delicate hands willing to bloody themselves in a show of genuine care, even as she is aware she herself might end up hurt in reactionary retaliation, even as sharpness returns to the eyes that bore into hers.

So familiar, so foreign, so haunted.

Gently, her hands grasp the offending claw so stubbornly, and her empathy can't help but have her wince for his sake, and for a moment it looks like she wants to say something, tempted to hesitate - but instead, she does as commanded.

And what a terribly upsetting feeling it is, struggling against the resistance of the claw against the flesh it was firmly dug into - but eventually, it does wring itself free - and she is quick to drop it, wiping her hands on the apron before hastily offering what few supplies they had at hand.

"Are you alright?" Worry washes down her in waves, brown eyes seeking any answer in the expression opposite to hers, feeling sorry that she could not help in any other way.

A wound wept red tears that beaded together, shinning like jewels in the low light. Each one racing down skin of white until dropping to meet the ground below, as he pushed the found blade further betwixt a sect of rib and muscle. Deeper this time, working to wrench out the claw that had been so carefully wedged there and bestowed easily during the bitter hours spent evening his score against his sibling amid the hordes of hellish evil. Fool hardy to let his left side to be flanked. A price paid in the pain that this action now wrought. Stolen minutes of dusk spent to work out this folly.

However something in him simply caved, Rendering him to light panting and trickles of sweat dripping from a brow tightly knit with agony – body heavily leaning against a wall and a grip that waned but never fell from its place. Pathetic how something as this could tire him, how this constant struggle had not already etched itself into his very being. Pain had become his master, yet its teachings still had not become absolute. Frustrations, gave way to soft notes that merely floated to him. Sooth, salve, save, they whispered to whatever piece of his core that still understood reason. An almost immediate recoil as he spied her figure poised delicately in the doorway. Angelic almost, stark white against the vibrant red of hair, kindness that forced recollection to sweeter moments just out of reach. Weakness, manipulation his thoughts resorted to in the silence that pervaded the absence of a verbal offer of a  hand extended.

He couldn’t understand what desire kept her fixed, half lids sweeping over her as if to find the answer hidden in plain sight. Muscles clenching and unclenching in a mouth that bore a sneer. There was something in the way she looked at him prior and in brief instances that bade silent questions visible yet withheld just beyond parted lips and questioning caramel eyes that no doubt observed him as much as he observed them.  unknown to the foreign torment that remained in his acclimation. How such softness of bedding welcomed a vulnerability to which resulted in lying between sturdy furnishings near dawn. How sunlight blinded him constantly or how the sound of a fireplace’s each crack brought on memory of his own bones snapping. Little but many curses that amount on high near impossible to count. None could untaint the corruption near coiled and constricting each shadow clinging to his steps.

Please try, words never spoken yet hung on each yielded gesture made with him in mind. Hearty laughter at dinners that sook to focus him. Challenges of promised fights to keep him grounded. Ginger taps and carefully placed hands to guide when needed. Eyes that snuck glances and small tasks left to occupy distraction from wandering thoughts and Dante eager to undo his careful work – only to lose fingers in return. Even now, a courage that hoped to be of assistance. Help that subconsciously kept him from drifting in search for what brought thoughts desperate for power never ending.

“Come.”, a free hand beckons, pallid torso twisting to adjust the exposed base of claw forward towards her as the rest of the rough hewn fabric of his jacket and vest is shrugged off. An exhale emitted interwoven with the steadying of his grasp on the blade, now renewed. A gaze briefly softening, surveying the choice stock supplies taken in mere necessity– mute measurements unsatisfied but regardless, it would staunch what came next. Daggers replaced the softness in piercing blues.

“Pull it out.”

[a-vctlan]

Her face does fall, a candid disappointment that she tries not to hide, her heart on her sleeve.

She had done her hiding, buried all the parts of herself that the Order had once found unladylike, corrected her behavior until she could bear the weight of the grace she was expected to carry… but she was done with it, and the freedom that came with being able to be and exist as herself was one she wished she could impart on the Devil before her.

… If for no other reason that he reminded her of her brother. The poise and cold sternness, the ever present placid politeness in these quiet in-between moments - here, but just out of her reach. Credo had grown his distance for necessity, responsibility placed on him for as long as she could remember, but through his stern lectures and overprotective nature she could see it: all he ever wanted was to protect her.

Perhaps it is selfish to impose her own feelings and thoughts on one of Sparda's sons, but she cannot allow such self-talk in her own home. So she shakes her head lightly, her voice dropping in volume, wanting this to stay solely between them.

"… I am disappointed to hear so." She answers, moving to set a kettle on the stove - some herbal tea would always help lower tension, or at least, so she liked to believe. "But - if I may be honest, I do not accept your words as they are. Your life has been one of strife greater than I can understand, but you are still here… are you not?" She glances at him through her bangs shyly, almost uncertain in her own words, but too stubborn to back down. "Am I wrong to believe you want to? To be here, to live?" Because how much of his life has truly been living? "How can you say that you've given up if you were never given the time or space to explore…?"

She fiddles with the sea set idly, two cups, one for her and one for him - she is definitely trying to subtly ask him to stay and listen to her.

ੈ✩ ｡˚  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎there  weren't  many  people  that  could  make  vergil  feel  less  than  by  simply  being.  perhaps  if  his�� parents  were  to  rise  from  the  dead  and  cast  their  gaze  upon  how  their  eldest  w a s t e d  his  life,  dreams  that  followed  a  similar  story  often  left  him  sick.  according  to  their  father,  he  and  dante  had  been  destined  for  greatness.  they  were  the  spawn  of  sparda,  and  thus,  they'd  been  born  with  the  onus  to  take  up  a  sword  and  protect  humanity.  however . . .  according  to  their  mother,  they  could  be  anything  they  wanted  to  be.  truly,  eva  believed  that  whether  they  followed  their  father's  footsteps  or  craved  their  own  path,  as  long  as  her  children  were  happy,  she'd  be  happy  for  them.  a  promise  to  love  and  be  proud  of  her  boys  no  matter  what  the  outcome  of  their  lives  may  be.  such  words  were  disregarded  within  vergil's  mind;  he  truly  doubted  his  mother  foresaw  the  twisted  life  her  children  would  take.  would  either  parent  look  upon  them  with  pride ?  disgust  or  disappointment,  perhaps,  but  not  pride.  he  certainly  wasn't  happy,  nor  was  he  a  protector  of  humanity  as  intended.  if  eva  and  sparda  cast  their  gazes  downward,  it  would  be  for  dante  and  him  alone.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ dante  was  another  he  dreaded  a  room  alone  with  —  which  was  amusing,  all  considered.  so  much  had  changed  throughout  the  years,  vergil  couldn't  even  consider  them  twins  anymore  (  though  mortals  had  a  way  of  pointing out  all  the  similarities  he'd  grown  blind  to  ).  sometimes,  vergil  could  see  glimpses  of  the  younger  brother  who'd  run  home  with  scraped  knees,  giggling  about  how  he  found  a  new  spot  to  play  and  dragging  the  boy  who'd  been  trying  to  read  alone  quietly.  his  fragmented  memories  tried  to  bridge  together  islands  so  far  apart  they  may  as  well  reside  on  different  planets.  but  when  that  failed,  all  vergil  could  muse  was  how  this  one  was  nothing  like  his  brother  —  that  mundus's  newest  reality  was  asinine.  yet  the  illusions  of  simplicity  never  seemed  to  matter.  for vergil  was  a  fool;  they  always  got  to  him.  the  idea  this  was  another  phantasm  presented  by  the  prince of  hell  often  plagues  his  thoughts.  the  dread  that  coils  within  him  at  the  simplest  idea  of  seeing  that  devil  again  frequently  makes  him  ill.  once  more,  does  vergil  relinquish  such  squandering,  instead  focusing  on  the  mortal  beside  him.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ he  never  expected  to  feel  guilty  for  existing  within  the  same  space  as  a  mortal,  and  knew  it  wasn’t  the  girl’s  intention,  but  merely  a  side  effect  of  who  they  are  as  p e o p l e.  truth  be  told,  he  regretted  coming  the  moment  she  smiled  at  him  from  the  entrance.  as  dante  strode  inside,  vergils  entire  being  screamed  interloper.  no  sign  showed  on  his  face,  though;  he  merely  greeted  the  kind  woman  and  his  son,  then he  entered  behind  his  younger  brother.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ flexing  his  hand,  a  sense  of  longing  for  the  weight  of  yamato's  tsuka  plagues  him.  a  battlefield  is  effortlessly  to  navigate  through,  compared  to  the  minefield  he’s  found  himself  in.  dante's  previous  jests  about  how  vergil  would  be  a  field  day  for  any  therapist  suddenly  coming  to  mind.  while  the  hybrid  may  be  able  to  admit  he  has  a  problem  (  the  first  step  to  recovery  ),  he  has  a  naught  desire  to  work  through  it.  truthfully,  he  still  waits  for  the  other  shoe  to  drop  —  for  dante  to  have  had  enough  of  this  deficient  family  life  and  to  be  done  with  his  elder  brother.  it’s  the  primary  reason  behind  vergil's lack  of  integrating  himself  into  the  life  the  other  man  had  built  for  himself.  he  won’t  force  himself  into  an  environment  that  flourishes  without  him.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ reducing  ourselves.  none  of  the  whirlwind  of  emotions  that  stir  within  him  even  flicker  to  the  surface.  to  reduce  implies  there’s  more,  and  while  that  may  be  a  fact  of  life,  it’s  one  vergil  pointedly  ignores.  he  doesn’t  want  to  see  more  —  doesn’t  want  others  to  either.  a  cold  lividus  coloured  gaze  watches  the  woman  bring  her  hand  to  the  jewel  hanging  from  her  neck,  before  retreating.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ kyrie's  words,  as  gentle  and  sense - filled  as  they  are,  are  wasted  on  the  monster  she  greeted  and  allowed  in  her  home with  a  smile.  she  had  nero,  dante  and  three  children  she  should  be  attending  to,  yet  here,  vergil  stood,  stealing  her  attention,  conceded.   ❛❛  it  was  merely  because  dante  enjoyed  all  of  this.  ❜❜  had  his  brother  possessed  the  same  attitude  as  vergil,  humanity  and  all  it  has  to  offer  would  perish.  he  almost  feels  guilt  for  the  hypothetical  kyrie  and  nero  he’d  have  slaughtered  if  such  a  reality  were  actual.  all  these  years  and  little  had  changed,  vergil  was  still  letting  dante  drag  him  by  the  hand  to  the  newest  play  spot  he  discovered.  they'd  return  home,  and  their  mother  would  frown,  upset  that  the  boys  had  played  well  into the  dark;  she’d  tell  vergil,  as  the  oldest,  it  was  his  responsibility  to  make  sure  they  got  home  safely  and  on  time.  ❛❛  whilst  i  appreciate  it  ❜❜  his  voice  remains  even,  and  vergil  knows  he  doesn’t  sound  genuine,  but  he  isn’t  like  v  —  he  can’t  let  the  weakness  that  is  his  emotions  to  seep  into  his  words.  distantly,  he  wonders  if  nero  shared  the  dying  man’s  words  with  his  lover.  he  wanted  to  be  loved . . .  protected,  helped.  ❛❛  your  time  is  wasted  on  such  an  endeavour.  i've  —  long  given  up  on  trying.  my apologies;  i’m  sure  that  isn’t  the  response  you're  wanting.  ❜❜